JINGLE ON MY SON!

3.10.18

The leaves blow through the glassas dreams float in the roomand people I have travelled withclimb up these timbered stairs.Memories coat the walls,days wander down the lane;there is no telling where the talesof drunken nights have gone.Church bells punctuate the moon,screams open up the dawn,and I see Jennifer lying there,poems oozing from her smiles.At morning, Ingrid, with her little hands,brings coffee to my brainand Karin calls at evening’s doorwith wine to ease the pain.All these dancing moments,the dripping down of hours;this house’s chest is heavingwith the loss of human touch.I drink those sunken daysand know the gulps are fleetingbut the moonlight-stains on the empty bedwill show we bledfor love.

THE OLD TUEBINGEN SLAUGHTERHOUSE

What ghosts of Swabian poetshang here?What dripping carcasses of wordssoak its skin?Death butchers us alland turns our pompous dreamsto dried shreds.Through the dark beams,the ghosts of Uhland and Moerikestalk the pigeon-infested morning;their lyrics breathethrough the dying day.What dead history?What living sleepwalkscreak the bloody stairs?The bells toll through the dustof long-lost traders;the startled bats shriek though the raftersand swifts rushacross the plains of ancient graves.Hoelderlin is howling still:the pain of his madnesscuts memories into the wood.My heart is teeeming with the Neckar,swarming with the blood of others.Cut me up.Slash at my poet’s veins,my crooked hat hides my fading eyes.My soul is walking through the Seminary,taking a pils in Hadessearching for my old friend Horst.As I sing poetry to old priests,boats slide along the river,full of slaughtered tunes.The lonely choir in the Market Placespeaks of old men rotted on battlefields,speaks of young men who never learnand the girls who fall for them.